Chapter 7
Tommaso
Totally enthralled.
That’s the only way to describe myself as I watch Gina finish her third pastry—two cannoncinos and one bombolone, an Italian donut.
She licks her fingers clean while talking with Bernard and Bianca, the older couple who’ve run this place for over thirty years.
They, too, were dazzled by Gina’s radiance and joined us at our table, where the three of them have been talking non-stop.
I’m so enthralled that I snapped a picture of her laughing with them, just so I’ll always have this memory, feeling grateful I thought to bring this small camera.
They’re conversing in Italian. While in America, we tend to use English more often than not—as was the case last night at her father’s house—and hearing her speak our language is doing something to me. Not just to my dick, but to my chest. Deep in my soul.
I’m absolutely fucked.
If I had received the forged marriage contract even a few hours later, after I had laid eyes on Gina, I would’ve challenged my father and my forged signature.
But before going over to Caruso’s house, I had called and told my father I would go along with whatever he was playing at without a fight.
We had even arranged for Rosa and her father to come to San Francisco, so she and I could meet before the happy day.
If I backed out now and broke the contract, I wouldn’t just bring dishonor to my father and our family; it would convey to our allies that our word meant nothing.
In our world, breaking a marriage contract would demand a blood sacrifice, but they wouldn’t go for me.
They’d go for the one who dared come between.
They’d go for Gina.
So what in the actual hell am I doing here?
Watching her obsessively as she drinks her second cappuccino?
Fantasizing about her lips on mine? Of her being so wrapped up in me, we can’t tell where I end and she begins? Of her being big and round with my child, and of her nestling my infant son against her chest?
This isn’t just sexual attraction I’m feeling. This is more… More potent. More dangerous.
I need to return her to Caruso’s house and never see her again.
But when she turns to me and smiles, I know I won’t be doing any of that.
Her smile fades as she studies me. “Are you okay?”
“He is fine,” Bianca says in Italian and flashes me a knowing look from across the table. “Aren’t you, re leone?”
“Re leone?” Gina hikes her brows. “I guess Lion King fits,” she says to me in English with a smirk.
“You think I’m a lion?”
“King of the jungle? Top of the food chain?”
I lean over and wipe some foam from her cappuccino off the corner of her mouth with my thumb. “You forgot apex predator.”
I can see her pulse jump at my touch, and I linger just a moment longer than appropriate—not that my touching her at all is appropriate. I may not be in a relationship with Rosa, but for all intents and purposes, I’m unavailable.
I pull back my hand, breaking contact with Gina, but there’s no way in hell I can stop myself from bringing my thumb to my mouth and licking off the foam. Her breathing is shallow and fast as she watches me.
I’m not sure if she realizes the signs of her lust: the dilation of her pupils, the slight shiver, the wetting of her lips, the tightening of her nipples under that blasted white shirt.
You can have her. You can make it work, the devil on my shoulder whispers.
Men in our world often have mistresses. But the thought of disrespecting Gina in that way is a bucket of ice water on my raging libido.
I’m not that kind of man. I wouldn’t disrespect my wife that way, and I’d never disrespect, devalue, or insult Gina by making her my mistress, even if she’d have me and was willing to play that role.
“We need to leave,” I say harshly.
She flinches slightly and blinks, as if coming out of a fog. The toxic fog that’s me.
“Of course,” she says politely, and it feels like a mile-high wall has slammed up between us.
Turning from me, she smiles at Bernard and Bianca, the latter is giving me a death glare. “Thank you so much for the delicious pastries, cappuccino, and the wonderful conversation.”
The nicety isn’t forced or perfunctory; it’s completely authentic. I don’t think there is a fake bone in Gina’s body.
I stand and offer her my hand, which she ignores and rises gracefully herself. Gritting my teeth, I pull out money and hand it to Bernard. The same amount I always give them whenever I stop in, which is multiple times a week.
And like every other time, they try to refuse while I insist. I always win.
Gina is stiff when I place my hand on her lower back to guide her toward the door. She doesn’t jerk away from me, though, and lets me check that it’s safe before leading her out and opening her car door.
She grabs the door and slams it shut before I can close it for her. Sighing, knowing I fucked up, I go to my side of the car and get in. She stares straight ahead, her chin up—proud and defiant—and shoulders set.
When I start the car, she whips her head to me with narrowed eyes. “Did you just give them your dirty money to launder through their business?”
I have to fight the smile that wants to bloom on my face. I love that she’s challenging me. “That money is entirely clean. It comes from my hotel, which has completely legal dealings. I have several legal businesses.”
“Oh.” A bit of her fire fades. “So why did you give them so much cash?”
“They’re older and can’t work as hard or as fast as they used to, so their volume of business is less. They love what they do, as does the community, so I like to help them out.”
Her dark brown eyes shine. “That’s…that’s very kind of you.”
I shrug, then pull the car out onto the street. “Karma and doing a small bit to try to balance the scales and all that.”
She’s silent for a bit, then asks in a soft voice, “When you told my father you don’t hurt women and children…did you mean all women and children or just those associated with the Santoros?”
I clench the wheel tightly as I’m reminded that her father struck her, and I force the lingering fury from my tone. “All.” Omitting unless the woman is an enemy.
“So, no human trafficking?”
I swivel my head to look at her. She’s not looking at me, but down in her lap, staring at her clasped hands.
“No human trafficking. The ‘Ndrangheta stands against it. And it’s the one thing my four top rivals in San Francisco and I agree on—we all want the routes through here shut down.”
“You control the port and smuggle things in.”
“Yes,” I admit. We bring in all sorts of things, including drugs for those who distribute and sell, weapons, along with other sorts of contraband. “Not all of it is illegal product, though. And none of it includes moving people.”
She falls quiet again, and I don’t know how to bridge this chasm that is suddenly between us. And I know I shouldn’t try to bridge it because it’s better this way.
So I don’t try.
I don’t apologize for my abrupt, harsh words or for my change in behavior. It’s better if she hates me. That’s what I repeat to myself the entire drive back to that god-awful house, convincing myself that I cannot take her to my home instead.
I regret that I wasn’t able to take her to the rest of the places I had planned to this morning, or that she didn’t get the walk I had promised her. But right now, she’d probably grab my gun and shoot me for how I acted so harshly and abruptly—how I morphed into cold Don-mode—at Caffè Amore.
As soon as I stop in front of the gate outside Caruso’s house, she opens the car door and gets out. I quickly get out as well and stride after her as she walks down the street instead of going through the gate and down the driveway to her house.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I grab her arm and spin her toward me.
She turns. And cracks me across the cheek. Her mouth falls open in horrified shock. “I’m so sorry.”
I frame her face with my scarred hands, keeping my touch tender so she doesn’t mistake it for threatening. “Never apologize, not even to me, for something that is deserved, il mio sole.”
Her eyes glisten with unshed tears and confusion. Then she pulls away from me, and it takes everything in me to resist pulling her into my arms and burying my face into the crook of her neck.
“I wanted to go for a walk and still haven’t gotten it,” she tells me stiffly.
“I’ll come with you.”
“I don’t want you to.”
Those words are lashes across my chest.
Her chin lifts, her eyes determined. “You can leave, Don Santoro.”
If I weren’t so goddamn turned on by her fire and defiance, her calling me Don Santoro—not in the teasing way she had before, but in a way that reinforces the wall between us—would hurt more. But as it stands, I refuse to let it bother me.
Because something has just become crystal clear to me.
“You’re not walking out here alone.” Before she can snap at me, I look over my shoulder at the gates, at the two guards standing there, trying not to be obvious that they’re watching this interaction. Seeing Davide, I call him over.
Gina is mad as hell, her arms crossed over her chest, glaring at me.
“Davide, accompany Miss Caruso on her walk,” I order. “Keep it to this street only.”
“That’s bullshit,” she flares.
“Keep your hand on your weapon at all times,” I order him.
The hard, cold look on my face tells him that I’m referring to his gun, not his ‘weapon,’ and if he touches her, I will flay the skin off his body. His look of fear tells me he understands.
“Of course, Don.” He swallows hard. “You can trust me.”
“Good man.” I clap his shoulder, then look at Gina. “Behave. I’ll see you soon.”
I walk back to my car, and I smile as she sputters in anger, her voice carrying over the distance. “You’re an asshole, Tommaso Santoro.”
I turn and face her. “I love you, too, Gina Caruso.”
Her face goes slack with shock, but I’m grinning.
Because that is what became crystal clear to me moments before. She’s mine, and I will find a way to keep her. Not as my mistress or as some dirty little secret.
But as my queen.